An Ordinary Afternoon
by mrpoohnminnie
Summary: Inspired by the latest BTS photo with (finally!) Carson and Hughes, I give you the following. PLEASE take a look at the photo first before reading. Or after. Just look at it.
1. Chapter 1

This is what happens when you stare at the only Carson-Hughes Series 5 BTS photo all day. If you haven't, please check the official Downton Abbey FB or Instagram page. Or, find my tumblr page (just look for my username that's shared with FFN). This is unedited and completely on the fly.

* * *

She was at it again - proposing a course of action to steer the downstairs ship that required Charles Carson to adapt.

It was her delivery that always irked him. Elsie Hughes was a stubborn, beautiful woman. She had the uncanny ability to introduce mayhem into his ordered world with an offhand comment said in the most casual of tones. More than that, it was her expression on some instances that simply did him in as he tried to process the latest change to their world. It was that imploring, wide-eyed look that set his world spinning.

It would speed up when she closed the distance between them. Since spending part of their enjoyable day holding hands in the surf, the proximity they shared was closer. True, they nearly rubbed shoulders while passing from the Servant's Hall on to the next task in their busy days. They would stand companionably inside the threshold of a pantry door, catching up after spending the Season exchanging letters. Even more so, he had found her distance dizzying when she quietly pressed him to let the wounds from his past begin to heal. Only staring at the window panes of the small window in his pantry kept him from doing something he thought they would regret.

But now his world was whirring around him as he processed the meaning conveyed with her Scottish brogue. Head slightly bent with an incredulous look on his face, he couldn't ignore the heat of her right hand as his left moved perilously close to it while processing her request. They had reached out to each other in moments of bliss and despair in the past – the ending of a war, the death of the sweetest soul in the house. But their beach interlude had opened up the possibility of reaching out to steady each other for the sake of steadying. Or for no reason at all.

But his hand wasn't wanting to touch her there. No, the stubborn woman was too close, much too close for him not to want to bend his left arm to reach her waist. He would move it and her towards his body while the thumb of his right hand would trace her cheek bone. Her expression would be shocked as her eyes dilated, growing darker as she surveyed his face, his lips. He would bend and she would reach and it would be bliss in an ordinary afternoon.

If only the door were securely shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Another compulsively written, barely edited drabble brought on by that BTS photo. I felt the need (and some urging - thanks, reviewers!) to add another drabble told from the perspective of Mrs. Hughes.

* * *

She knew this was going to happen – again. That exasperating man. It was just a simple request she was making, one worthy of simple acknowledgment. But it was never, ever that simple with him. It was his vexatious shock with every single unanticipated ripple in the highly controlled currents of his life that would set her temperature and blood pressure rising.

Despite her dubious nickname, implying fire and brimstone at every turn, Elsie Hughes usually was the guise of patience personified – especially when it came to Charles Carson. It would usually sustain her through these moments that somehow churned an unsettling undercurrent around him, upsetting him for no reason other than them signifying change, an altering of the 'way that things were done.' Her patience would usually win out, carried by trust and love that had developed over the years.

More often, she would will her temperature to steady despite his desperate manner in conducting himself - as if he were clinging to the last vestiges of tradition, embodied by the crisp confines of his evening livery. She wouldn't be able to back down, to let things lie, every single time.

Even when he would jauntily feign adaptability, as he did when Lady Rose sprung his lordship's birthday surprise on him, she could barely contain herself. She desired to roll her eyes followed by a crooked, loving smile as she looked down to her folded hands. But her desired reaction would be insubordination, after all, despite them being effective equals. She would never betray him that explicitly in the public areas of downstairs. As for less public areas, that was another matter entirely. He was fair game.

Properly provoked, she would advance with a bandy of words, sometimes with a step that would invade his personal space. He would sputter to a halt, his eyes and eyebrows moving comically high and wide to low and narrow. His hands would twirl at his sides, or even behind his back. But in these moments, where he wasn't quite boiling with anger – yet – she too could be on the verge of raised spirits. Like now.

He could do that to her – elicit conflicting emotions, one after the other, at the drop of a hat. She had entered his pantry tranquil and focused on the task at hand, and he had wiped those thoughts away with the stirring of worry and rage – and something else. No one else had ever come close to that exasperating honor – not Joe Burns, hopeful footmen, nor the odd noble house guest with a roaming eye.

Yet the others had taken and given and she had accepted and provided – willingly, wantonly – in the dead of night, secreted away in darkened sheds and spare bedrooms.

But she did not know Charles Carson in that way. She couldn't admit to never considering it in previous years, nor could she squelch the dreams that started when she thought she had cancer. They haunted her then, but they dominated her nights since wading in the sea together. She was haunted because she wasn't certain she would ever know.

In these moments as the air charged into an atmosphere in which her baser instincts would billow up, threatening to surface with abandon, she couldn't help but wonder. She wondered if their knowledge of each other's thoughts and fears, of how to listen and serve others with such fixation, would serve each other to delicious satisfaction. She wondered.

Her left hand itched to wander, and she balled it into a fist to fight back the compulsion to move it to its normal resting place at her waist. How close her hand would be to his own waist then, the edge of his waistcoat so tempting in its proximity. No, she musn't go there. But she could wonder – and wish.

She wished his large hands, led by uncomprehendingly graceful fingers, would finger and wrap around her belt where the chatelaine - her symbol of power and spinsterhood - was affixed. She would stumble forward as he tugged on it. His hands would find all of her parts free from the confines of her corset. She would rest her hands momentarily just above where his trousers disappeared beneath his waistcoat. Her fingers would follow the edging of his coat to that singular, affixed button in the center of his chest. How she wished she could use her strong yet soft fingers to undo it, causing his reserve to become unbuttoned along with it.

Or, perhaps he would begin to scowl at her plans, puffing up with righteous indignation as she failed to hold back a roll of the eyes. Instead, her thoughts would be focused on summoning her own formidable self-restraint to prevent more earth-shattering actions. She would need every ounce of mental focus to prevent her hands and lips from reaching to silence his inevitable, forthcoming diatribe with a searing kiss. Perhaps she would stop wondering. Perhaps she would lose herself to the atmosphere and begin the art of knowing.

But first there was the pesky matter of the door. At last, she could put her balled fist to use.

Sorting out the new blender could wait.

* * *

Thanks to Chelsie Dagger and deeedeee for the idea of the kitchen blender bit - he would argue over something that ridiculous. Exasperating man, indeed.

Drop a line (or even a happy or sad face) - I'd love to know your thoughts! And, please - write and share your own drabbles about the picture. Without them, September will feel soooo far away!


	3. Chapter 3

Plane rides, beach walks, and no-wifi equals = not the quickest update. Since I'm gingerly sipping on some over-priced Starbucks at the moment, this chapter is especially hasty.

Thanks for your incredibly helpful (and amazing) reviews/PM's/reading. I've said it before and I'll say it again - all of you Chelsie fans are simply wonderful. Hearts to you all!

Below is from Mr. Carson's perspective, picking up from Chapter 1 (or 2 - they both ended at roughly the same point).

* * *

But he couldn't close the door - not yet. She blocked his path, becoming more beguiling by the minute. He daren't touch her. Instead, he blustered helplessly. He couldn't stop his incredulous eyes, nor could he tamp down on a hasty disclaimer before questioning her judgment.

Even worse, her eyes were starting to narrow to slits as they turned a color akin to a treacherous, choppy sea. Charles Carson knew he was in for a dressing down now. But oh, how he secretly relished her wordless call to battle.

Her color was up - not that caked rouge of his hall days, but a natural, beguiling flush. It spread to her neck, and he could barely keep his eyes from tracing what he imagined would be a line of pink skin down to her corset, ensuring her already warm skin would be hot to the touch. He had seen some of that skin at the beach, freckled - kissed by the sun. How envious he was of that star as he lost sleep over the memory of her, enticing him effortlessly with each recollection of that blessed Brighton beach.

But a star couldn't trace the edges of her newly coiffed, upswept hair. It couldn't finger the long muscles of her neck. He wondered briefly how she would feel under hands that sought to rid her of the knots that likely developed after long days of paperwork. He wondered - no, knew - that her small but strong hands would bring similar relief to his broad shoulders. He tried not wonder but was certain that her hands would bring any number of pleasures, even if they merely held hands again.

He couldn't stop imagining nightcaps with kneading fingers intermixed with planted kisses, soft sighs, and discussions of balanced house accounts. It was a seemingly unthinkable notion, yet desired all the same: passion intermixed with the epitome of service – to the family, their staff, and to each other. She embodied that on a daily basis. He only wished to feel her and to be felt as she did it, just as they did on the beach.

He knew her postcard plotting was her simple but not simplistic wish that the staff enjoy an unstructured, uneventful but memorable day. Of course, that sort of untethered state was not his first inclination. He had quite enough of serving the family during the London Season, alternating between rigid societal expectations and complete chaos. He wanted order. It was comforting to him, but not to the staff, and she recognized that. And so, the pattern of beck and call did not rule their day off, but rather sun and sand and surf. And her.

She ruled this moment, as well - the fiery goddess from the north. Of course he would cave - the new blender and all the electrical updating it would entail would be incorporated, hopefully further away from their offices. It meant one more thing requiring adaptation, one more gadget meant to economize. He wasn't completely unaware of the need to stay up to date. Despite his loathing of newer cocktails, it was just the sort of thing to keep a grand family in the nouveau but not nouveau riche. The transformation downstairs was yet another aspect of the endless footrace to stay at the forefront, as much as he despised the whirring and grinding gadgetry that came with it.

But she could handle it, just as she handled him. That thought alone was enough to madden him even while he wondered about that flush, those expressive eyes, and that balled fist. Staring at her for too long – lost in thoughts of heat and skin, of warring words and loaded looks – set his mind whirring again.

Thoughts usually reserved until the dead of night soon took over Charles Carson. He wondered over her uncanny ability to respond to a thought he had barely formed in his head, let alone uttered aloud. He wondered of her raised voice, her contented sighs, her endless walking of ceaseless stairs. He wondered of her chewed lip - how she would respond to someone else nibbling it - for pleasure instead of worry. He wondered how these desirable traits would culminate on a large bed in a secluded cottage until it drove him nearly mad.

But, now she looked pained, glancing back towards the open doorway. What had he done now?

"Mr. Carson." Her indescribable voice cut through his thoughts, the whirring noise filling his ears. Signaling with a tilt of her head towards the kitchen, "Perhaps we should shut the door for now," she quietly asked as the grinding of the blender increased in intensity.

He shook himself mentally – that blasted blender. Somehow, its machinations were clouded out by the unspeakable, un actionable thoughts that dominated his mind. He could only grunt, fearful of yet another outburst, or a slip up that would destroy any semblance of order in his regimented world.

Instead, he sidled by her. Or, at least he tried to avoid her with a wide berth. But his long, swinging arm had to brush against her as he began to return to his previous spot after closing the door and locking it shut. The clanging of wood and metal, lost to the blender's drone, was not unobserved by the housekeeper. When he looked up to gauge her reaction to his encroachment, her eyes registered a shock he could feel down to his toes.

Countlessly committing the same infraction over decades of service together, nothing generated the shock to his system like this. This - this was electric. After years of living in parallel, the insulation that kept them at a professional distance sizzled away in an instant, causing them to finally touch with the awareness of the awesome energy between them.

Like the lights that flicker in response to arcing wires, her blue eyes dimmed at their sudden spark. He stood mesmerized, watching them dilate and darken to a shade he never encountered – or never recognized – until this moment.

Energy arcing and firing as one, their thoughts began to further align as the din of downstairs began to fade away behind the door. Together, they could hear Mrs. Patmore and Daisy recover control of the infernal machine. In the periphery, they could see the tallest hall boys quickly darting to and fro from the small window overlooking the downstairs interior. But those aligned senses were not to dominate the coming moments – taste and touch would reign.

She drug her eyes away from his lips, intent on questioning him with her mouth enticingly opened. But he could see the realization dawn in her that words were no longer necessary. All that wondering was about to become confirmed knowledge, in the flesh. The verbal battle of technology had commenced and halted. A different front, one of wordless, mutually assured victory, was about to open up. But the battlefield, augmented by sound and sight, was perilous.

Before she could move another muscle, his right hand surrounded her left, tugging her with surprising vigor towards the other doors that led to the outside universe. Here, inside his pantry, was the only world that mattered, and he zealously locked them away. Behind the secured doors, they were one bunker further removed from their downstairs trenches.

It was then she gave a forceful tug of her own, creating further separation from their world by utilizing his half -opened silver pantry. It was a hasty solution, but one of inviting proximity.

They were about to be close, closer than ever before. The pantry's diminutive size was irrelevant in the final analysis for the two arcing wires. Perhaps they would catch fire inside its narrow confines; the staff none the wiser to the engulfing flames.

* * *

As always - reviews are always, always, *always* appreciated. I know you all have thoughts about what should be happening with our favorite couple, so fire away!

P.S. Quiet Evolution, my other, more substantial story, is still going. It just got a little quieter this week. I promise to update that in (hopefully) the not-so-distant future.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you, lovely readers/reviewers/rebloggers/PM'ers. You've all helped me a great deal in writing a decidedly different thing for me. Here's the last thing I can eek out of that lovely photo. As this was edited hastily before getting on a boat, please forgive any typos. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes backed slowly inside the silver cabinet, her left hand still leading the butler ever closer to her. She could not tear her eyes away from his. They were boring into her with an intensity well beyond his singular focus when decanting wine. It was thrilling to think she was about to become the center of that finely-tuned attention.

This topsy-turvy world was not unsettling to Mr. Carson, surprisingly. As long as he maintained contact with his fiery housekeeper, he could endure it all.

Even with their bodies practically thrumming with energy, they began slowly, acutely aware of where they were heading. His left hand tentatively sought out her small waist as her right hand found a temporary home on the curved plane of his broad chest.

They advanced slowly, eyes still locked as their bodies aligned. But they soon became fixated on their next objective - impatiently waiting lips. Their first kiss was soft - feather light pressure full of quiet longing spanning the space of several rapidly beating heartbeats. But it was enough to create yet another shock that registered in their eyes as they pulled away momentarily. Their eyes assessed, questioned, answered. Above all, blue and hazel eyes conveyed everything that could not be expressed verbally - yet.

It was then, with another wordless exchange conducted with the windows to their souls, that they finally lost themselves to the art of knowing.

He commenced with a torrent of pure pressure. His charging form and the pleasure it brought made the sharp edge of the cabinet digging into her back a mere afterthought. But as delicious as it was, the complete, elecrtifying force of this mountain of a man, she also wanted nuance - random shocks and calming touches before increasing the intensity yet again.

As she began to incremently pull her head back slightly while barely moving her head from side to side, yet another window opened to his passion along with her mouth. He picked up on the invitation, gently following the path of her mouth with his tongue. But it didn't dart experimentally towards hers yet. Instead, he focused all of his attentions on the lip that found its way into his dreams. The other aspects of passion may have been distant memories to him, but nibbling her lip was a common feature of his weaker moments.

All her nervous chewing might have desensitized her ability to respond to his vortex of suction and velvet heat and soft nibbling. But that might have been the case with other men. Charles Carson somehow knew what would be her undoing.

Her whole arm surrounded his broad shoulders to keep from slumping, trying in vain to stay on her tiptoes to meet his bent frame. At some point, his head tilted violently to the side, somehow increasing the pressure of his lips on hers as his tongue finally found hers. Countless searing moments passed unnoticed to their sighs and quiet moans.

It was glorious even as he softened his demanding lips in respite. He was already beginning to learn, to know what made her hum. If she wasn't so occupied, she might have laughed in wonder that her prediction was already bearing fruit.

Next time, Mrs. Hughes thought, I'll sit on his lap. But that was the future - this was here and now.

Mr. Carson caught himself in the reflection of several silver pieces exploring her every curve and crevice. As shocking as their hands touching minutes ago was, he was completely overjoyed at the visual verification that they were here - finally here - interlocked in a fierce embrace of pure passion. He would never look at the silver in the same way again. As a long dinner service wore on, he would see shadows of a small and vibrant woman with delicate skin smelling of rosewater and lemons. He would see his own arms snaking further around her frame, his mouth open and eyes wide in near disbelief before returning to the plump softness of her lips.

Mrs. Hughes could feel his hands wandering ceaselesly over the bone and fabric of her corset, practically scratching at it to feel the skin it kept from his impatient fingers. Even as he plundered her mouth, she couldn't help feeling overjoyed at his nearly unbridled fervor. She had unearthed that young man of passion and was thrilled he and the not so young, stuffy butler were sharing the cramped space of the silver pantry along with her.

Closing her eyes tightly as she smiled widely, she felt and heard a low growl of frustration as he moved to savor the juncture of her shoulder and neck. "If staying with the times means getting a blasted blender, we can certainly do without these bloody corsets."

Gasping at his coarse confession, they pulled away from their fierce embrace. Delightfully frusrated in previous moments, he hardly remembered what he said not a moment before. His confusion dissolved at her delighted look. Pulling him closer with the aid of his lapels, she murmured against his lips. "If I knew this is how you felt about corsets, then perhaps I would have transitioned into the modern era long ago." Dipping her head slightly, she found that dimple in his chin she spent many a night pondering. "Aren't you the closeted modern, Mr. Carson."

As he began to chuckle at her comment and the sensation of her lips, she seized on his unguarded state by locking onto his lower lip, just as he had done to her moments before. How that lip had distracted her on more than one occasion: as it jutted out while he gave a thoughtful pout behind steepled fingers at his desk; or turned to a thin line before his face formed a frightful scowl upon the intrusion of any disordered idea into his ordered world. Now, she could feel and hear the low octave of his guttural moan. It wasn't long until her focused ministrations left them gasping for air.

She quietly panted as her eyes, unfocused by proximity and desire, took in the chiaroscuro of his tie, collar, and heated skin of his neck. The warmth of his now slowing, deep breaths on her forehead were almost too much in their heat and the passion they exemplified.

Pulling back once more, she was spellbound by the youthful, unkempt man in front of her. But their sequestered moment was precious - someone was bound to seek out the rulers of downstairs at any moment. He could see her prideful, passionate look turn to resignation. Soon he became aware of the meaning behind her slightly mournful expression when she began smoothing out the lapels of his coat and straightening his tie.

But he couldn't lose touch with her yet. Instead he fingered the small belt at her waist to ensure it was no longer askew. He tucked an errant piece of her auburn locks behind her ear, somewhat successful in returning it to its proper place. He would learn how do this all with her - heighten their passion while soothing it, keeping it nearby but slightly apart from their professional lives, for now.

Gently fingering her jawline, he smiled crookedly. Bringing her closer with his thumb and fingers grasping her chin, he could tell she wasn't quite ready to let the moment recede quietly. She caught him once more in a searing kiss made all the more exciting by the restraint they had to maintain for the sake of their required state of impeccable dress.

At the quick rapping of knuckles on wood, they separated, gasping for air with wide eyes. "Mr. Carson, we need your assistance in the kitchen, and Mrs. Hughes," Daisy implored with a strained note to her voice.

"This isn't over," he whispered urgently to Mrs. Hughes as if he were sending a plea to a higher power.

He started at the muffled repeat of his name by the second cook. "Wait a moment, Daisy," he replied with a voice thick with barely-checked passion. Mrs. Hughes faintly noded as he switfly walked to his door, smoothing his hair while running into the the side table chair with his long legs. It wasn't his most graceful moment, but it thrilled her to see the after effects of their heated moment.

"It's just the beginning," she called out just before he completely passed his side table. Further rewarded, she inwardly grinned at the sudden halt to his gait well before reaching the door handle. With eyebrows raised at full mast and a grin playing about his lips, he sharply glanced at the door before jerking his head back to gaze at her, now just beyond the silver pantry. Gone were her heated looks of moments before; what replaced them was quiet, pure joy. He had seen this look before, but only now he began to understand its true meaning. Though disorder was quickly becoming a part of his world, she was the star by which he would set himself right, as always. How overjoyed he was to know that this star was vibrant, alive, full of treasures for his senses, and surprises he will gladly accept.

Confidence returning to him, he turned the lock and opened the door before glancing back at her now perfectly composed expression. "This time, I think you're right, Mrs. Hughes," he exclaimed with a knowing smile before being met with a flustered Daisy. Despite her well-earned experience, she was an earful of nervous comments.

"Why don't you show us what the problem is, Daisy," Mrs. Hughes voiced gently, soothing the flustered cook.

Extending his arm with an outstretched hand to Mrs. Hughes, indicating her to join them, he witnessed the small smile she gave to Daisy before the young cook returned to the kitchens.

No one was witness to the housekeeper trailing her left hand down the butler's forearm as she smoothly exited his pantry. But the butler and the housekeeper could not hide their small smiles as they both looked bashfully to the floor. They were full with delicious, heady knowledge of each other. The adrenaline they felt was not to wear off just yet - the promise of further tutelage was on the horizon.

Passing through the threshold, he raised his head to the cacophonous scene of the kitchen, resting his eyes on that now blessed blender. Perhaps it could remain close to this pantry, after all. One never knows when the distracting whirring might be needed to drown out the delicious sounds of another passionate embrace on an ordinary afternoon.


End file.
